Shiver Till You're Warm Again
by The Serial Dabbler
Summary: Sunrise came early and despite everyone's best efforts, Miguel reaches the top of the tower just that little bit too late…and the ripple it causes changes everything. With well laid plans playing over and over in his head, Miguel's left trying to figure out where things went wrong. #what might have been?


A/N: _'You've got to get home before sunrise or you'll be stuck here forever.'– Head Clerk._

Sunrise came early and despite everyone's best efforts, Miguel reaches the top of the tower just that little bit too late…and the ripple it causes changes everything. With well laid plans playing over and over in his head, Miguel's left trying to figure out where things went wrong. #what might have been?

Rated T: Because I'm paranoid

Disclaimer: I own nothing (except my muse)

Footnote: There's also snippets of dialogue lifted from the film in the fic – mostly because the scene between Mamà Coco and Miguel was so beautifully written already I didn't have the heart to stray too far off the beaten track.

Additional Footnote: I've not written anything in a while but…there's something about this film that just tugs at your heart strings in all the right places. So I thought I'd give it a try (and stumble gracelessly into the fandom!)

Warning: Bad Spanish – I am so, so sorry.

Shiver Till You're Warm Again

They were too late.

Only just…but seconds may as well have been minutes, hours, for all the difference it would make.

Mamà Imelda's hand remained stretched out towards him, the marigold petal dull and listless against Miguel's jacket.

…It was over.

Miguel would look back on this moment in years to come and wonder whether it was the shock, which appeared to freeze time and make everything just so… _quiet_ , or whether his Mamà Imelda simply couldn't wrap her head around why they hadn't made it…when everything had been laid out so perfectly to ensure he went home.

When so many people had been willing to help him.

Miguel's last memory, as he reached his hand out to Hèctor's flickering form, desperate for some kind of reassurance things would be alright – for solid proof Hèctor was there, was Mamà Imelda's usually stern voice, cracked and battle worn, calling his name.

…

He wakes the next time in what he assumes is the Land of the Living, at the Casa de Rivera. Mamà Coco is sat, huddled in her chair in the corner of the room, draped in the blanket Abuelita had gifted her last year and for one, mad, wonderful second Miguel honestly believes he made it home.

That the marigold petal had shone when it touched him.

The moment doesn't last long and the elation soon vanishes as quickly as it had come when he crouches down in front of Mamà Coco and his hands pass straight through her knees.

And suddenly Miguel knows, with a clarity he's sure should frighten him that he died in Mamà Imelda's arms.

He can feel the sting of tears at the corner of his eyes and stubbornly blinked them away – because for reasons he can't even begin to understand this meeting feels important and for the first time in months, Mamà Coco is looking at him with clear eyes.

"Miguel?"

Miguel manages a smile.

"Hola, Mamà Coco."

"You've come home."

Miguel can feel his breath hitch, his throat thick and he knows he's dangerously close to breaking. For all the comfort Mamà Coco's words could have been if things were different…all they were now were a painful reminder of what he'd lost.

Home wasn't quite home anymore.

"Ah…not exactly," Miguel answered tightly, despite his efforts to keep his voice light when his heart felt ready to burst. "I'm…gone now. From this world," he chose his words carefully; uncomfortably aware that although Mamà Coco's mind was lucid now, that it could easily slip away again, as it had countless times before and that he'd be Julio again. "I came to see you."

"You always were such a good boy."

Even with the sudden vibrancy in her eyes she looked frail, swaddled in her colourful woollen blankets and although Miguel had always known Mamà Coco was old, he doesn't really think he ever appreciated just how old she had become.

How long her life had been.

And even though he knew her life had been full, with happy memories of a devoted mother, a loving husband, children of her own and many, many more children as the years had past - she'd kept her Papà's memory alive on her own.

Unable to share it with anyone.

For almost a hundred years.

It was humbling…to be in the presence of something like that.

"There are people waiting for us, Mamà Coco. Mi familia…on the other side," he reached into his back pocket, relieved when his fingers brushed against the crumpled remains of Mamà Imelda's family portrait and tugged it out, holding it out for Mamà Coco. "Papà," he pointed to the headless figure. "Remember, Papà? He loved you very much."

"Papà?"

"Si…Papà. Remember?"

She's slipping away – Miguel can see it in the way her eyes have started to gloss over and he knows he's loosing her.

That she's forgetting…

"No," it's desperate and louder than he'd meant it to be but he needs her to concentrate just a bit longer – because he's terrified that if she slips away now he doesn't know what he'll be going back to when he wakes up again in the Land of the Dead. "Mamà Coco…please! Don't forget him. You have to try to remember…Papà?"

In the end, it's Hèctor's lullaby that sparks her memories and Miguel spares an absent thought wondering why he hadn't thought of it sooner. When music had been her childhood…when Hèctor would play and Mamà Imelda would sing and Coco would dance…and nothing in the world mattered.

"My Papà used to sing me that song…he was a musician," it's not much, but it's a start and the look on Mamà Coco's face as she talks about Hèctor is worth more to Miguel than he'll ever be able to tell her. She looked younger, less burdened by the world and for the moment she's completely there and not locked away in her own memories. "When I was a little girl…he and Mamà would sing such beautiful songs."

These are the stories Mamà Coco has held dear her entire life, the ones she's always remembered but not been able to share.

And Miguel wishes more than anything he could be there to hear them.

But things are different and there's no going back because sunrise came a just that little bit too soon and he could have taken Mamà Imelda's blessing the first time she offered it but he'd made his choice and now …things were different.

Miguel isn't sure whether this would count as Hèctor's stories being passed down, he isn't entirely alive anymore and is somewhere between life and death so perhaps there's not enough of him left in this world for his memories of Hèctor to save him?

' _Our memories, they have to be passed down from someone who knew us in life, in the stories they tell about us.'_

He isn't willing to risk it.

"Your Papà, he loved you so much Mamà Coco," there's a strange, weightless feeling creeping through his body, one he hadn't noticed before but one that now seems to be trying to tug him away…his time is running out. "You need to tell his stories so our family can remember him, so he'll be able to wait for you…Make Abuelita and Papà listen."

Mamà Coco reached for her night stand, rummaging in the top drawer for an old leather bound book Miguel can never remember seeing her with before. She opened it gingerly in her lap and Miguel can see the stack of hastily stacked letters inside as if Mamà Coco often took them out to look at.

"I kept his letters," she said brightly, flicking through the envelopes. "Poems that he wrote me and this," her fingers pulled out the dog eared, clumsily torn part of Mamà Imelda's family portrait and Hèctor's smiling face stares up at Miguel from the page. "Perhaps it's time I showed these to Elena."

A grin, wide and unrestrained broke out across Miguel's face and he finds that he's no longer thinking about what happened at De la Cruz's Sunrise Spectacular, he's not worrying about what might happen when he has to go back and he's not afraid of whatever is coming next.

All he can think about is how no one in his family would be able to turn Mamà Coco away when talking about her Papà makes her light up the way it does.

The weightlessness returns, more insistent and much harder to ignore and Miguel knows his time here is up.

"I…have to go now."

Miguel isn't sure whether to be surprised or not when Mamà Coco seems to grasp the significance of his words, when her clear, now solemn gaze falls on his face and racks across his body as if she knows something doesn't quite add up the way it should do.

He throws his arms around Mamà Coco's thickly blanketed shoulders in a pale shadow of a hug because he seems to be able to touch objects by not people and for one, fleeting moment, he's able to pretend he's back in the Land of Living, kissing his grandmother good bye before heading off to school.

Mamà Coco's fingers move as if to lightly brush his hair from his eyes, although the touch doesn't follow, and the smile that paints her face is bittersweet. She presses a kiss to the crown of his head and although he's not completely alive anymore Miguel doesn't think he'll ever forget the feeling, the emotion behind it.

…

He wakes the next time in a sudden jerk of movement, like hitting the ground after a fall and bolts upright. He doesn't recognise the room but the walls feel familiar and if he could just concentrate on one thought long enough he's sure he'd be able to pluck a memory of a similar room in the Casa de Rivera.

But there's so many thoughts flashing behind his eyes that he can barely keep up with them.

He blinked, rubbing his eyes with the palm of his hand, noting absently this is now bone, white and pristine like Mamà Imelda's and tries to sort through the images.

There are too many and they move too quickly for Miguel to figure out exactly what they are and sometimes when he is able to grasp the edges of a picture, he's assaulted with the voices of his family. One by one they echo through his mind and mould together into words he isn't able to understand.

He buries his hands in his hair, yanking his head down and away from the light trickling in from the small window.

His head is a mess, thoughts that don't feel like his own raging war and the colourful images and the muddled sounds combined is what Miguel thinks it must feel like to go _loco_.

Somewhere beyond this, he can feel a hand gripping his shoulder, and when an image of De la Cruz, with his hand balled in his jacket, his feet kicking useless against the floor to try to find something to latch onto, forces itself to the front of his mind he almost jerks away from the touch.

It takes everything Miguel has in him to recognise the hand resting on his shoulder isn't hard…the fingers rest gently against the bone there, enough of a pressure for him to feel it but not the grip of someone getting ready to haul him away.

It's reassuring.

He reaches out blindly with one hand for the one he can feel, his fingers connecting with another and he latches on tightly because he doesn't understand what's going on and without that hand, he's alone in his head and he's frightened.

This isn't like waking up to find Mamà Coco huddled in her chair.

An image of Mamà Imelda, face void of the stern expression she usually wore, looking down at him flashes behind his eyes and suddenly something akin to the light of a marigold petal, golden and warm erupts in a blinding light which leaves him momentarily stunned and out of breath.

"Hey _Mijò_."

It takes him a while but he eventually shakes his head, blinking against the last of the fading light and when he does finally look up he's back in the room.

And although it's only been _one night_ …it feels like a lifetime.

"Hèctor?"

Things are still a little out of focus as his vision settles, but he can just about make out Hèctor's face and when he can finally see clearly he's greeted with the obvious relief in his great-great grandfather's expression.

Hèctor's bones aren't glowing anymore and maybe it's just a trick of the light but Miguel is sure they looked better. They're not quite as stained or splintered as they had been before, and the noticeable discolouration of his skull has faded.

"You're okay?"

Had things been different, Hèctor would have laughed, Miguel would have joined him…because the happiness in this moment wouldn't have been overshadowed by a death.

"Well…I'm still here, kid."

Miguel finds the adrenaline that's been carrying him since he first ran off from Mamà Imelda leaves him, all at once, in a sudden rush and he's left feeling a mixture of overwhelming relief and a crippling emptiness that might have something to do with the abrupt absence of his organs?

But he'd made it in time...for some things at least.

Mamà Coco had remembered her Papà and was going to try and share his stories and although he's hurting now…and his living family would be left to pick up the pieces of his life now that he was gone, his death hadn't been completely without meaning.

It had been unexpected, _avoidable_ (that one really did sting) and all other manner of things he didn't particularly want to think about but at least he hadn't died for nothing…he'd managed to keep Hèctor's memory alive.

Which is exactly what De la Cruz had been trying to stop.

"What was that?"

There's a moment of uncomfortable silence.

"It's your life, Miguel…your memories from the living world," Hèctor's hand hadn't moved from its perch on Miguel's shoulder, something solid to ground him, when everything seems to have spiralled so far out of control. "It's what happens when you-"

Hèctor trailed off abruptly and when Miguel chances a look at his face he can see the tightness around his eyes and the firm set of his jaw (so different from the good natured expression Miguel has come to know) as he tries to find the words, when its clear he's really trying to avoid one.

"Die."

Miguel's voice, because he's determined to be brave, is perhaps a little too blunt.

His death is raw…for everyone.

The unnatural way of his passing coupled with his age and so many other things Miguel doesn't have the energy for right now was going to be a hard blow for all of them.

With more than enough blame and guilt to go around Miguel has to keep it together.

He doesn't know his deceased family well enough yet but he's seen (been part of) arguments and just general fallings out with his living family when tensions have been high that he knows there's usually a pointed finger, an accusation and someone willing to shoulder the blame, whether their at fault or not.

Family comes first, regardless of any of that, as it always has and always will for family both living and dead but Miguel has seen what guilt can do to a person and he's terrified of what guilt over his death would do to someone if they had to carry it.

"Yeah."

Hèctor's voice is flat, deflated and the hand holding Miguel tightened that bit more. His other hand reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a vanity mirror - Miguel makes a note to ask him where he got it from when things have settled down because he remembers seeing one similar on Frida's desk.

"Here."

Hèctor had flipped the mirror open and when Miguel takes it from him, angling the compact to get a better look, he notices the other man is watching him.

Miguel doesn't honestly know what he was expecting but his face looks little different to how it had done in Hèctor's make up, perhaps a little less 'fleshy' at the sides and with the very noticeable absence of a nose but otherwise it's his face that stares back at him.

And something like relief for a fear he didn't even realise he had floods him.

There's more colour on the bone than when Hèctor had decorated his skin, the orange dots which lined his cheeks earlier remained, just brighter and more pronounced and above his brow he has orange flecks which are strikingly similar to his great-great grandfather's.

It makes Miguel wonder whether this similarity in death means he may have grown up to look like Hèctor.

"Dead as a doorknob, eh?" Miguel tried for a smile, but from the look on Hèctor's face he can see the joke falls flat. "Sorry."

"No. It's okay, _Chamaco_."

They stay as they are for a long time, Hèctor's arm slung around Miguel's shoulders. Miguel huddled against his ribcage and although there's no flesh lining their bones, it somehow feels warm.

"I didn't mean for things to be like this," the words feel hollow when they leave him, he can't imagine what they must sound like to someone else but they're out there now and he can't seem to stop the rest from flowing now the floodgates are open. "I thought we'd make it."

"We all did."

Neither one of them mentions they probably would have made it if not for De la Cruz.

"Is Mamà Imelda mad?"

"Furious," Hèctor replied easily, an odd sort of smile that wasn't quite a smile pulling at his mouth. "But not at you."

It felt strained and Miguel wasn't used to feeling uneasy around Hèctor, one of the good things about his great-great-grandfather was his relaxed attitude and mostly positive outlook, even at times when things did seem bleak.

Even at his weakest, when he'd been dangerously close to fading, Hèctor had still tried to smile for Miguel.

…Seeing him silent and grave was unsettling.

"I should have told you," Miguel admitted quietly, as if anything more might break him. "When you asked if I had any other family…I should've just told you."

"And I shouldn't have tried to drag you back to Imelda," Hèctor conceded dully, knowing he'd probably never forget the look of betrayal that had crossed Miguel's face after the contest. "Yet here we are."

"You were just trying to help."

It's not quite the whole truth, both Miguel and Hèctor know it but there are elements of truth in there and perhaps that's all that matters at this point? People tend to forget themselves in anger and often words are said which no longer hold meaning when the dust settles.

But it's difficult to move on from something like that when you aren't able to see past your own pain.

And although it had, in part, been Hèctor's existence in the Land of the Dead they'd been trying to protect, it was Miguel's life on the line.

And really what kind of a great-great-grandfather was he? To allow Miguel to gamble with something as precious as his life.

He'd spent so many years alone that he's forgotten a lot of what it means to have that kind of responsibility.

Hèctor remembers little of life, aside from his memories of Coco, Imelda…his family, having existed decades longer in death.

He's forgotten what it's like on the other side.

And as he looks at Miguel, he feels the pull of a heart he no longer possesses because how could he possibly understand how this must feel? When he has nothing but vague memories of his own life to go on?

But if there's one thing Hèctor's come to know well it's the hardships of death. Having spent so much of his afterlife on the lower levels, he's no stranger to grief.

The Final Death claims all lives in the end…but Hèctor's seen more than most fade away and having to watch desperate and broken souls suffer through the last of their memories fading from the living world has taken it's toll on him over the years.

But it's those moments, when he stood with an _amigo_ as their light disappeared from the world, completely unsure whether his presence had been of any comfort at all, that made him hope, beyond any rhyme or reason, that when his time came, there would be someone there with him.

Because dying alone, regardless of how full a person's life had been, was frightening.

And so, when Hèctor recognises the way Miguel's face contorts as his eyes squeeze shut, waiting for the tears which will never come, he gathers the boy close and cradles Miguel's head against his shoulder, like he had his daughter before him in another lifetime…

…And waits for the storm to pass.

"I'm sorry, kid."

It's not much, certainly not enough but it's the best Hèctor has to offer at the moment.

Miguel didn't deserve this.

There'd been a time, somewhere before Imelda's passing and Hèctor had just about got himself settled with the nearly forgotten, when Hèctor had thought twenty-one had been too young to die. When he'd been a mixture of hurt and angry – when he'd felt cheated of his life (although he hadn't realised how justified those feelings had been at the time).

But as he glances down at the boy in his arms, the great-great-grandson that had been so hopeful, so full of life…a reflection of everything Hèctor could remember himself being at his age, he's suddenly keenly aware that despite what had happened in his own life, he'd been luckier than some for the years he'd been given.

Twelve… _twelve,_ was no age for death.

And as easy as it would be to fall back into the bitterness, the despair that he'd felt early on in his own death and channel it towards the man, someone he'd once called _hermano_ , for what he'd done to Miguel– righteous anger and vengeance would not change what had happened…It would not help Miguel.

Besides Imelda held enough fury in her bones for all of them – and if he were honest with himself, she'd always been the strong one.

Shaking his head abruptly cleared those thoughts, because there would be plenty of time later to mourn the life Miguel had lost.

Right now the last thing the kid needed was to turn his way only to see that his death had broken him too.

"You know," Hèctor's voice is soft, unobtrusive as he gently prodded Miguel's shoulder. "You don't have to be okay right now," Miguel's breathing is still erratic and hitched in places but his vice like grip on Hèctor's vest has slackened. "Things like this take time so…it's okay for you not to be alright."

"I told my family I didn't want to be a Rivera anymore," Miguel's words are weak, strained as if he's trying to push them out past the emotion clogging in his throat. "I told them I didn't care if they remembered me."

"People say a lot of things in anger _Mijò,_ that doesn't mean others have to listen."

' _Never forget how much your family loves you.'_

"I left them," it's said with such an air of finality that Miguel flinched. "We had a fight and…I left them," Miguel's too caught up in his own thoughts to register much of Hèctor's reaction to what's being said, and really if anyone were to understand what this was like for him, it would be his great-great-grandfather –who'd spent decades trying to make up for the same mistake. "What if they can't forgive me? What if I've hurt them so badly they can't face putting my photo up?"

It takes everything in Hèctor to squash the urge to correct the boy because he desperately wants to point out that Miguel never left his family – that his death had been horribly deliberate and completely out of his control.

That if things had gone to plan the boy would be home, with his family, ready to live out the rest of his life.

On some level, he's certain that Miguel knows this…that he's not to blame for his death, but perhaps the kid is still too fragile in the wake of his passing and a little too cut up about everything else to accept it right now?

Hèctor heaves a shuddering breath, because for all his good intentions there's nothing that can be done to change things now.

' _Nothing is more important than family.'_

For the moment, they're both muddling through this as best they can. So despite the gravity of the situation, despite the somewhat broken ground they're both still standing on a warm smile falls across Hèctor's face and he playfully elbowed Miguel.

"Nah. I'd bet Cheech's femur that you'll be up on their _ofrenda_ next _Día de los Muertos_."

Miguel's photo will be displayed, Hèctor's completely certain of it and perhaps it's the conviction in his tone that finally gets a smile from Miguel? He's a Rivera…family comes first and as short-lived as his life may have been, Miguel was full of fire and spirit and even if one night had changed everything, the boy loved his family with an intensity not often seen in someone so young – Hèctor can't imagine that he wouldn't have a place in the hearts of his living family.

"What about you?"

It's a good question and one Hèctor is in no shape to answer…too many things are too fresh and there's still too much that needs resolving before the family can move forward.

Imelda had allowed him to stay for the moment, whilst things settled down in the wake of Miguel's rather sudden arrival, but things between the two of them were a far cry from being amicable (bar the odd moment when one of them would forget themselves) and although old truths had come to light tonight there's over ninety years of lost time to unpick.

"I'll be around, _Chamaco_."

It's the only promise Hèctor can honestly make the boy – and he meant every word, with an intensity he hasn't felt in a long time, because even if he has little idea of what's coming next he's determined to be there, for anything Miguel might need, until the Final Death claims him.

Miguel is looking at him strangely, his expression no longer reflective of the solemn, broken soul he'd been but rather something light and curious, something that resembled more how he'd looked when he was alive.

"What?"

"Is that what happened? To Cheech's femur?"

Hèctor has busied himself with trying to repair a tread on the rim of his hat, fingers twisting hastily at the straw but he abruptly stops his efforts, raising a brow sheepishly at Miguel.

"…What?"

Miguel laughed, crisp and bright against the stillness of the room, and he sounds so vibrant that if Hèctor were to close his eyes he could quite easily picture the living boy who'd crashed into his life the night before.

" _No manches_ , you heard me."

"Cheech knew the score," at Miguel's blatantly pointed look, he added. "I'm telling you I was this close," he's swung his hat back in place and holds up his thumb and forefinger. "To winning it back,"

If the expression on his face is anything to go by, Miguel isn't buying any of it. But his eyes are alight with a spark that was all too easy to loose in death and Hèctor decides in that moment he'll quite happily be the punch line of whatever joke the kid has in mind if it keeps his laughter alive.

"What about the van?"

Hèctor scrubs a hand across his face.

"Oh…Come on, kid."

 _Digging up the pieces that they left you in again  
_ _Love is all you want but you're never gonna feel the same  
_ _It's hard to be yourself when everyone around is changing  
_ _Open up your eyes and you'll never lose yourself again_

 _Old enough to know but young enough to live again  
_ _Stare into the mirror but no one that you know is there  
_ _Shaking like it's cold and no one's there to take your hand  
_ _I will give you mine and shiver till you're warm again_

 _So don't you look down…_

 _And we go over and over and over again  
_ _Are you lost in the past thinking what might have been?  
_ _You're here and you're now started over and then  
_ _Take it over and over and over again_

 _Turn it up!_

Lyrics courtesy of Goo Goo Dolls

A/N: Review? If you feel like it?


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